


Bitter. Sweet.

by InOmniaParatus



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Dark Harry Hart, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M, Rape, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 02:06:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7386418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InOmniaParatus/pseuds/InOmniaParatus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is on a mission to break up a human trafficking/prostitution ring. He takes a shine to Eggsy, one of the more defiant victims.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter. Sweet.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [D34THR4C3R](https://archiveofourown.org/users/D34THR4C3R/gifts).



> So this is a thing that got out of hand. Chapters two and three are already done. I'll post it in a couple of days after editing has a chance to happen. I meant to present the whole thing at once, and just a really long oneshot, but it didn't want to do that. -.- Don't hate me. 
> 
> Will NOT be abandoned, promise. 
> 
>  
> 
> Readers should probably be aware that this is not a fluffy story.

Harry Hart fervently wished that, just once, the sex trafficker du jour would be something _different_ , something inventive, something that wasn’t the disgustingly overdone trope of filthy beds in filthy, poorly constructed rooms in some damp, mouldy underground hell.   
  
It did, to be fair, make it slightly easier to locate and dismantle them, but it did nothing to break up the monotony.   
  
These fuckwits, for example, had set up shop in the catacombs of Znojmo and behaved as though this was an original, genius decision, nevermind what they’d do when the public tours opened back up in April. Imbeciles.   
  
Harry had to admit, though, they weren’t completely inept. While such a market was hard to “corner,” they did bring in a steady parade of seedy clientele and they were, at the very least, clever about where they snatched their victims from, and that had allowed them to go a long way undetected.   
  
The leader, a portly, balding man called Petr Brozek, was confident they had the continental “tourism” firmly within the grasp of their grubby hands, but wanted to test the England’s own waters.   
  
This is where Kingsman comes in. Harry, as one Michael Kettering, is a businessman with more money than morals and the deed to some crumbling, ramshackle old castle. Christ, but they were practically tripping over themselves to win him over.   
  
It was the first time he’d been invited down into the catacombs for a meeting with Brozek. He was on time, even, which made it all the more irritating when one of the lackeys approached him.   
  
“Mr Kettering,” the man said, with exactly the type of simpering voice that made him want to roundhouse kick someone in the face, “I’m afraid Mr Brozek is stuck in another meeting. He invites you to, please, have a look around while he finishes.”   
  
In Harry’s experience, the “bad guys” don’t often actually instruct you to explore their bases of operations. It was practically a gift.   
  
He kept his pace leisurely as he walked down dank corridors and peered into the cheerless cells of the damned in hopes that Merlin’s facial recognition would be able to identify them.   
  
There were those who were _entertaining_ , who were being pushed past the limits of what they could endure by men who loved to hear them beg for mercy. Harry rather thought the clientele to be unimaginative, run-of-the-mill sadists having their first go at a human. They had no flair, no finesse. They’d come to regret their haste, and at least one of them would accidentally kill their victim. Idiot. Brozek would not be best pleased about that.   
  
Truth be told, Harry found the victims who were alone to be much more interesting. He liked to see how they were coping, how strong they were.   
  
There were some Harry thought were broken beyond repair. Even if he’d had enough evidence today to send in the calvary, even if he already knew who was backing this venture, those people would spend their lives just as they were then: in a bed, staring despondently into space.   
  
Others yet still had their skittishness. When Harry walked past, they’d cover their heads with threadbare blankets or scurry back into shadowed corners. Harry liked them, liked the way they still acted as though they could will their torturers to another cage, another victim. He also, unfortunately, knew that those  were the sort that would be zeroed in on.   
  
The defiant were Harry’s favourite, precious for all their rarity. There seemed to be only one of them here. He was a young man, though Harry couldn’t tell how old, sitting at the foot of his bed. His knees were pressed against his chest, his thin arms wrapped around them like a vice.   
  
Holding up his lantern to shine into the cell, the first thing Harry noticed about the boy was the bruising. He was covered in vibrant purples and faded yellows, spattered with welted, angry reds. It was as though an artist had painted the canvas of his pale skin.   
  
But it was his face—Sweet, embuggered _Christ_ , his face—that drew Harry in. It was filthy and a combination of stubble and bruising aided the defiant set of his jaw. His eyes, green in the lantern light, glinted with a spark Harry had come to associate with _I fucking dare you_.   
  
He was lovely, but his beauty wasn’t what made Harry’s breath catch and his cock fill. In the midst of the boy’s obstinate little face, looking almost carved out of the dirt caked onto his cheeks, were tear tracks.   
  
Harry wanted him. He wanted to—  
  
“Ah, Mr Kettering! So sorry about the wait!”   
  
Brozek’s too-cheerful voice made both men wince, ripped them out of their too-intense moment.   
  
“I see you’ve found the boy of the hour,” Brozek rambled on, unaware. “I’ve just sold him to a director of snuff films.”

**Author's Note:**

> Have a great day, hippie.


End file.
